


The Essence of Silence

by unholyseraphs (oncharredwings)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Body Horror, Dean is psychotic, Flashbacks, Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Not A Happy Ending, Rape, Serial Killers, Sexual Assault, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncharredwings/pseuds/unholyseraphs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester used to make toys for a living; he was always good with his hands, but no one buys handmade toys anymore, so he is forced to find new work for his hands. On a search for his perfect angel, much like Michelangelo, Dean finds Castiel and decides to create his new favorite toy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Essence of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this awhile ago, I'm sorry it's not up to snuff. 
> 
> This is for the 2014/15 SPN Reverse Bang. My artist being [Anna](http://carrionofmywaywardson.tumblr.com/). She is also the artist for my DCBB 2014 "The First Children", so if you guys read that, then you may like This. 
> 
> It's super fucked up. I'm sorry. Even I'm shocked at my own twisted logic. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Art Post](http://lucyannethropy.livejournal.com/31008.html)

D E A N

 

Chapter One

 

“Excuse me, Sir?”

 

Dean blinked slowly as he turned to move his eyes from crimson to blue - and not just any blue. No, this blue was by far the purest blue Dean had ever seen. Bleached eyes, the color of a September sky rolling in with colors. Glass eyes, the most popular color in China dolls. Dean skated his own eyes from the blue ones along the high, delicate cheekbones, down the sharp nose, to full, pink lips, and a well-defined jawline. A gasp escaped his lungs. It was like staring into a living doll. He almost reached out to touch the young man’s skin, to see if he felt like porcelain.

 

“Sir?” the beautiful stranger repeated.

 

“Yeah?” he finally managed, trying not to flinch at his own gruff voice.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just-... you’re standing in front of the sale, and I kinda need to slip in there and grab a bag.”

 

It took Dean a moment to process but then he turned and realized that the stranger was right; he had parked himself in front of a display of cookie packages, unmoving, and more or less blocking anyone else from sliding into grab anything. His cheeks heated up and he silently took a step to the right.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled with embarrassment.

 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” the stranger replied with a smile that could have cracked diamonds. “I’m Castiel, by the way. I thought I should give you a name since I’m bothering you.”

 

 _Castiel_.

 

Dean’s mind went right to Michelangelo - _I carved the angel from the marble until I set him free_. Was Castiel the missing angel from the marble? He had to be; he was just so _beautiful._ Right down to his name.

 

“I’m Dean,” he said quickly before Castiel could walk away. “Dean Winchester.”

 

Castiel turned to face him again, setting the cookie package into his basket. “It’s very nice to meet you, Dean Winchester. I’m new in town, so meeting new people has been a bit of a whirlwind, but you’re probably the kindest person I’ve met so far.”

 

Dean felt his heart soar. _He_ was the nicest person beautiful Castiel had met so far. Him...? The reject? A touched, soft, and small smile twitched his lips as they stared at one another. “Well, you must not be meeting the right people if I am the nicest you’ve met so far.”

 

Castiel laughed - it was like angels cracking and dying, their beautiful screams the last thing heard before their demises. Was there anything _not_ beautiful about Castiel?

 

“Oh, you’re too hard on yourself!” Castiel proclaimed.

 

He felt his blush deepen and he rubbed the back of his neck, as he grew overwhelmed with embarrassment. No one had been this nice to him in years. Not since before he was rejected and practically shunned to his corner of the world. “Nah, trust me, I’m a grumpy old man.”

 

“Oh, you’re not that old,” Castiel replied with a sly smile, his tone light and airy.

 

Dean glanced up into Castiel’s midwinter sky eyes again, searching for the lie but he couldn’t see it. Maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe Castiel truly was that marble angel, just walking and breathing the same air as him. No one deserved to breathe the same air as Castiel, except perhaps his Michelangelo.

 

“I apologize for having to rush off, but I’ve got _so_ many errands to run,” Castiel said, drawing him back to reality. “It was nice meeting you Dean, I hope we can meet again soon.”

 

 

Dean felt his stomach drop. Castiel was leaving; he was walking away, around the corner, out of sight. He cried out slightly, following Castiel around the corner, and then slowing down, standing back. He couldn’t alert the young man to his behavior; it would probably upset him. Castiel wouldn’t think Dean was the nicest person he had met thus far if he got too close right away. So, Dean remained back, casually watching as Castiel moved around the store, his eyes focusing on different pieces of his perfect anatomy.

 

His hands were delicate to Dean’s eyes, but not delicate enough. They would have to be reshaped. The fingers were long though, Dean noted, as Castiel picked up a head of lettuce. Long and exploring. Dexterous. He nodded, satisfied with the fingers. They could stay the same.

 

His skin had a golden cast to it, as if he had spent too much time out in the sun. That would have to change. Dolls did not have tanned skin. Neither did angels. He would have to keep Castiel in the dark for a while to bleach him.

 

His legs were long and soft looking, like satin. He shaved them, which was good. Dolls were meant to be smooth and perfect. There were no imperfections with his legs. Dean supposed he could keep those.

 

His hips were carved so lovely and perfect, Dean wondered if they were made from the finest bowed wood. He shuddered, his fingers itching to touch the bones, feeling them slide beneath his palms.

 

Dean snapped out of his fantasy as he saw Castiel pay for his belongings and then he was leaving. His own basket long forgotten, Dean slowly followed him back outside to the parking lot where he glimpsed him climbing into a small, pale blue car. His eyes ran over the license plate: 8K7 B625. He memorized the numbers as if they were his favorite sequence in the world. The real work would come later, but for now, he needed to track Castiel’s whereabouts. His schedule. Find the perfect time to take him.

 

As Castiel drove away, Dean watched him go, already picturing his perfect angel in his mind’s eye. There wouldn’t be need of much physical change but he would have to prove to Castiel that he _did_ own him. It would be the only way to keep him. As Dean sank into his car, he tried not to think of the first boy he had taken and crafted; he had not been the angel he had figured him to be. Fashioning him had been so _easy_ because he had been so accessible.

 

Dean drove home with his jaw set and his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he remembered. Sam had been easy enough to take; he had brought him home from college to visit, and he hadn’t made it to his interview on Monday.

 

 _“Dean... Dean please, you don’t want to do this. You don’t have to do this, just let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t call the cops, I swear,” Sam begged as Dean approached him, the bloodied knife still in his hand. “_ Please _.”_

 

_“Sammy,” Dean whispered, his sticky fingers raking through Sam’s hair, “you are almost so perfect on your own... I remember watching you grow up, you were so pretty. Almost like a doll, but then you went to Stanford and ruined yourself.”_

 

_He slashed the knife along Sam’s arm in his rage. Sam had been so perfect - so thin and delicate, but not now. There was too much muscle. Too much toned skin._

 

_Sam shivered, flinching away from Dean’s touch. “Dean, I’m sorry, please don’t do this-” He cut off in a scream as Dean sank the knife beneath his skin, peeling it back delicately like the skin on an onion._

 

 _Dean felt his cock grow hard at Sam’s screams but he tried to ignore his urges. He could fuck Sammy later, for now he had to try and return his brother to the svelte figure he had before he had left for Stanford. While at school, Sam had packed on the pounds in muscle. His delicate Sammy was_ gone _and Dean didn’t like this new Sam. Not at all._

 

_The skin fell to the ground like peeled away shavings. He was going to cut the muscles out. If he cut them out, then he could have his thin Sam back. It was a quicker solution, better than starvation. Sam’s screams grew louder as Dean dug the knife in, but then he gave pause. He turned his eyes to the tears streaming down Sam’s face and he slowly removed the knife, even pressing a cloth to Sam’s arm to staunch the bleeding._

 

_“Dean... please... please stop,” Sam begged tiredly._

 

_There was too much blood, he had finally realized. Sam was bleeding out too fast. He was going to lose his doll before he finished. Cursing, Dean did his best to stop all of Sam’s bleeding, keeping his limbs elevated, and then giving Sam fluids. He gave him an entire water bottle, easing the water past Sam’s parched lips and down his throat carefully._

 

 _“I will be back,” Dean whispered. “I’m going to get you some more blood. You’ll run out before long and then where will we be? Ruined. Ruined Sammy, you ruined yourself. This is your fault, if you’d just stayed the way you were_ supposed _to be, we wouldn’t be in this mess, at all.”_

 

_Dean clicked his tongue at Sam and then he was leaving after he removed the gloves and apron from himself, hanging them up carefully. He ignored Sam’s pleas and went upstairs to change his clothes instead._

 

He had gone to get Sam the blood he needed but when he returned, Sam was gone. So he tracked Sam to the woods outside of his house and found him limping weakly for the road. He wasn’t going to let him get away.

 

After wrestling Sam to the ground, he had beaten Sam so hard that he knocked his little brother unconscious. Then, he drug him back to the house and tied him up tighter than before, giving him the blood transfusions he needed. Afterward, to Dean’s delight, Sam had lasted for an entire month.  Dean had intended to starve him because the carving had taken too much blood.

 

But after a month, Dean had come downstairs to find Sam dead. He had managed to shove enough blanket down his throat to asphyxiate. He could still feel the same disappointment he had then, and he clenched the steering wheel hard when he remembered. His cock throbbed to life and when he pulled up to the house he had to slide his hand down his pants and rub himself until he was coming a sticky mess at the memory of taking Sam, fucking Sam, making Sam the doll he had always wanted.

 

It hadn’t been perfect.

 

Sam had not been the _one_.

 

Sam had been a trial, a test, but Castiel would be different. Castiel was the one. The perfect one. The doll. His doll. His angel.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t hard tracking down Castiel’s license plate, not in the small town of Charity, Maine.

 

8K7 B625.

 

He lived in the last house on the left hand side of the street marked Deer Run. It was a small house; only one floor, old, and dirty on the outside. A perfect starter house for someone as young as Castiel seemed. The car was parked in the driveway; it was early morning, not even seven. Dean did not assume Castiel would be there but he was pleased to find out he was home, probably asleep. Anxiety was making him want to break in and take him now but he didn’t know enough about Castiel yet.

 

This had to be perfect, down to every last detail, including how he would go about taking him to the house. It would be planned to the clothes he would wear, the kinds of gloves that would go on his hands, even the weapon to use when convincing the young man to not scream his head off and come with him without trouble. Dean took a sharp breath through his nose as his mind wandered to the way Castiel’s svelte, lithe body would feel against his own, struggling, pulling, and writhing. How _alive_ he would feel as he cried and begged to be let loose.

 

He groaned, his hand reaching down to palm himself through his jeans when he felt his body stir from arousal. If he gave into his desires now, he would probably miss Castiel’s first movements; he had to _know_ Castiel’s physical movements, his routines. He needed better discipline than what he was showing now. Another deep breath and he found himself under control again, which was good, as he was just in time to see Castiel walk by his front window, wrapped in a robe, looking as if he would very much rather be in bed still.

 

That made him smirk. So, Castiel was not a morning person, meaning he would be more easily caught off guard. He wrote that down in the notebook he always kept on the people he found beautiful enough for his design. The book was full of people, all the people he had taken. For a moment, Dean moved his eyes over the list and notes, remembering each victim with a happy reverence.

 

Sam had been the first. His test run. Of course, at the time he had believed Sam would be the _only_ one, but that had not been true.

 

Adam Milligan had come next. His _half_ brother - the brother that he had hated, but he still found beautiful. Unfortunately, Adam had almost gotten away, so Dean had to shoot him to keep him quiet. That had been a messy and dirty night. Dean wrinkled his nose with disgust at the memory. He didn’t like messes.

 

After Adam had come Andy, not beautiful but a way to sharpen his skills. Then Kevin, again, another trial. None of them had been perfect. There were plenty of John Does too; men he had simply started picking up at bars and then bringing them home for weeks at a time until they either killed themselves or he killed them. It was frustrating, trying to find his angel, but as his eyes followed Castiel around his house, he felt so _sure_ at last. There was no doubt in his mind, he was just certain Castiel was _the one_.

 

Castiel left his house at exactly 8:30 in the morning. It was a Wednesday. Dean wrote the note down and waited for the car to pull out of the driveway and make its way down the street, turning a left at the end, before following slowly. In the beginning, when he had first started, he had been sloppy about following them, but not now. Now he was _good_ ; he had always been a fairly good hunter and tracker, but hunting animals was easy. Hunting people was a hell of a lot harder because they were smarter, more intuitive, and self-aware.

 

But if stalking were an art, he would be the grand artisan. The best of the best.

 

Castiel led him to the library, his place of work. Dean drove past it and pulled around the corner, parking his car behind one of the antique shops. For being a small town, Charity had a fairly decent library, so Dean made his way inside, his eyes training all over for signs of his favorite librarian. It wasn’t long before Castiel reappeared with a cart full of books he was needing to restock on the shelves. So, Dean chose a section and waited. Eventually, Cas would make his way to the science fiction aisle and they would “run” into each other. That was good enough for him.

 

He scanned each and every title of the books on the shelves, drinking them all in, even making some mental notes to pick a few of them up. When he reached the F’s, Castiel came around the corner, and Dean glanced up at him. He offered Castiel a smile, wondering if he would be remembered.

 

“Dean?” Castiel whispered.

 

He nodded with a warm smile, wanting to keep Castiel drawn in. “Hey.”

 

Castiel’s face erupted into a smile; a smile that lit up his face as if he were unbelievably excited for Dean to be _here_. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

“You too. Do you work here?” he asked.

 

“Yep,” Castiel replied as he began to shelve some of the books. “I do. It’s not too bad, I like the quiet, and I like books. It brings me some peace, you know?”

 

Peace. Dean nodded again and whispered an affirmative. He _did_ understand the need for peace; screaming brought him peace, the smell of copper gave him comfort, and watching life dangle on a balance made his heart swell. No one else seemed to _understand_ his need for his own peace, but one day, they would. They would understand. Castiel would understand.

 

“Dean?”

 

He blinked and returned to reality. “Did you say something?”

 

“Yeah, I asked what you did for a living? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

 

Castiel was wearing a sweater made of thin material, dyed a pale, almost bleached, turquoise; it hung off of one of his shoulders, exposing his smooth skin, and a delectably shaped collar bone. Collar bones were beautiful in Dean’s mind; so were ribcages. They were underappreciated parts of the human body in his opinion. Beneath the sweater, were well fitted jeans, hugging the curve of his calves, and the width of his thighs. Dean imagined they were hanging low on his perfectly shaped hipbones.

 

“I used to make toys,” he said slowly, as his mind began to think backwards through time to when he had made dolls and ships and soldiers, “a long time ago.”

 

“Oh? That sounds fascinating. You don’t anymore, though?” Castiel asked, turning to face him completely, clearly enraptured with the beginnings of his story.

 

“No,” he replied quietly as he turned his eyes to his hands. They were calloused from years of hard work; they were carpenter’s hands. “No, not anymore. Not since children quit wanting handmade toys. Now everything is all about electronic parts and artificial intelligence.” The words came out more bitterly than he had intended.

 

Castiel’s face showed him how bitter he had sounded, as his eyes, dancing happily like ocean waves at high tide, turned sorrowful, a maelstrom in their depths. “I am sure you made beautiful toys,” he whispered sincerely.

 

Dean moved his eyes around Castiel’s face, looking for the lie, the tease, the jest, but there was nothing. He was almost doubtfully sincere. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

 

“Of course.” A sad smile slid into place, making that storm in his eyes light up with stars. “Sorry, I have to get back to work, or I’ll get in trouble.”

 

“Sure.” Dean gave Castiel a quick nod and then he walked away, picking a new place to haunt. He ended up picking a window, staring out of the glass down to the parking lot where people were coming and going, carting books and movies alike.

 

He remembered when so many people would come to his small toyshop, children’s eyes lighting up like they did today with their iPads and iPods. No one wanted handmade things these days.

 

Of course, not many people had wanted them then either. He was only in his late thirties; it wasn’t as if handmade toys had ever been “in” during his time. But, kids still got a kick out of the craftsmanship, and parents were happy to buy their kids something they wouldn’t just break from the get-go. Wooden swords, floating boats for bathtubs, lovely dolls made of fine china and handsewn clothing.

 

He could feel his hands clenching into shaking fists as he remembered being practically laughed out of business. His shop had closed down, his money dried up. Luckily, he had a talent when it came to cars, and earned money by working at a garage whenever they needed him. Squirreling his money away had kept him above water, and he had always been a good pool hustler. But nothing could replace the love of his craft.

 

When someone sank down into the chair next to where he stood, he almost hauled around and punched them in the face. For no reason, really, but his anger was bubbling right beneath the surface, ready to burst through his skin. He needed out of the library. Dean turned and stormed toward the front doors, busting out into the cooler air, taking it in in huge lungfuls. The sidewalk felt too long as he walked down it, staring at everyone passing him, wondering if they knew how much of a failure he had turned out to be.

 

As far as he was concerned, they _all_ knew, and they were _all_ laughing at him on the inside. He would show them. He would come back with the perfect creation and then people would _line up_ outside his door to be crafted by him. He would be _God_. He would be better than God because he would give them whatever they asked for. God was cruel and God always got the last laugh. Dean was tired of God winning. It was his turn to win a game. It was his turn to shine.

 

Chapter Two

 

Monday: Castiel went to work at 9, he took lunch at noon exactly, usually at the cafe across the street.  He got off work at 5, and then  he would go home afterward and stay in all night.

 

Tuesday: Castiel had the day off, he did not get out of bed before 11.

 

Wednesday: Castiel tended to leave his house by 8:30, go to work, take lunch at noon, was off work by 4:30, and then he would spend the rest of the afternoon running errands. Sometimes the grocery store. Sometimes he would drive into the nearest city to go to a strip mall.

 

Thursday: His other day off. He hardly did anything on his days off.

 

Friday: A repeat of Monday

 

Saturday: A repeat of Wednesday

 

Sunday: The library was not open on Sundays, Castiel sometimes would rise early to go to Church, but Dean had only seen him do that once in a span of three weeks. Most Sundays he spent the day doing house tasks - cleaning, straightening up, and then reading.

 

Dean decided by the end of three weeks that while Castiel was beautiful, he was also painfully boring.

 

Chapter Three

Castiel was too absorbed in his shopping to realize he had been followed. Dean was counting on how oblivious Castiel tended to be. He sipped at the coffee in his hand, sitting at a small table outside and casually watching Castiel through the shop window. The shopping trip had so far lasted three hours, and even Dean was starting to lose interest. He was going to have to strike sooner if he was going to keep up his own desires. Castiel _was_ the one, he was just getting too old for this, that was all.

 

Dean checked his watch as Castiel walked out, more bags in his hand than the last time he had seen him. After Castiel had put the bags in the trunk of his car, Dean stood up and casually walked over to his. Considering it was almost dinner time, he had a small hope that Castiel would be going home. Dean started the car and waited. He spent most of his time _waiting_ these days. Waiting for Castiel, waiting for the right moment; he was tired of waiting.

 

Following Castiel back to the house was easy and he decided it was time now, so instead of parking far away from the house, he pulled right up to the curb and got out of the car, just as Castiel was bent in the trunk. The knife felt cool and comforting in his hand as he slid up behind Castiel and pressed it right against his throat. He could hear Castiel gasp, and then he began to straighten up, his bags dropping to the ground, the contents rolling away from them.

 

“Please don’t kill me,” Castiel whimpered.

 

Dean wanted to speak but he knew Castiel would recognize his voice, so instead he backed Castiel up, spun him around and quickly walked him to the car, stuffing him inside before joining him on the other side.

 

“D- _Dean_?” Castiel gasped, clearly surprised to see him be his captor.

 

Dean took off fast enough to make them both jerk back in their seats, his jaw set and his lips in a thin line. “You’re boring,” he accused Castiel angrily.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You’re _boring_. I was losing interest. It wasn’t time yet,  but you forced me to do it now, This is your fault. You only have yourself to blame,” Dean looked over at him, staring into bleach blue eyes, realizing there was now _fear_ there. Normally, he wanted them to be afraid, but not this time. He didn’t want Castiel to fear him; he would fix it when they got home.

 

He had to give Castiel credit, he could have flung himself out of the car at any point on their way to the house, but he didn’t, he remained seated, staring out the front window stubbornly. Dean drove them out to the middle of nowhere; he lived in the forest, his house hidden away from most people’s. He didn’t like to be bothered for one thing and this gave him privacy to do as he wanted. The cops never came there.

 

When he parked and got out, he went around quickly and opened Castiel’s door, pulling him out roughly and then they were walking to the house. His angel’s skin thrummed with life… or perhaps the thrumming was simply his heart beating wildly.

 

“What do you want with me?” Castiel asked as they walked around the house to the basement entrance, prodding him down the concrete steps.

 

“I want you to be mine,” he replied.

 

There was quiet after. Dean didn’t like it, but he let Castiel into the basement, turning on a flickering light bulb allowing him to take in the scene. Dean felt some satisfaction when he heard a small gasp and a smirk slid over his lips.

 

The room was small with a rusted framed twin bed against the left wall, a work bench that was stained deep brown and crimson from all of the blood that had seeped into the wood, directly behind it was a wall of various weapons and tools. Hanging on the bed were leather straps that would help restrain him when he left him down here to sleep; after Sam’s debacle, Dean had removed all of the bedding, leaving only the dirty, blood stained mattress. The light was yellow and weak, giving the room a look of death and fear.

 

“Please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Castiel begged as Dean pushed him over to the bed, making him lie down. “Dean, please, please!”

 

“Shhh,” Dean whispered as he laid Castiel down on the bed, getting his wrists and ankles strapped into place, even as Castiel began to struggle. He had been right; feeling the young, lithe body writhe and struggle made him hard. Deft fingers worked Castiel’s jeans down, followed quickly by his underwear, revealing his well manicured skin, smooth, and _alive_.

 

Dean groaned quietly as he removed the knife from his pocket and began to cut the clothing away until Castiel was completely naked, his eyes wild and white in the dark. Straightening, Dean eyed his handiwork with a smile. “I am going to enjoy you.”

 

There were tears staining Castiel’s soft cheeks. “Please, please don’t. _Don’t_ ,” he begged brokenly.

 

He turned away, walking over to the workbench, lying the knife down on the wood carefully. The next thing to come out of his mouth slid out like a surprise. “I will let you go if you can escape in twenty-four hours. I won’t come after you. You will be free of me… if not, you stay here, as mine. My angel.” He cast a smile back over his shoulder and blew him a kiss. “Good night, my love.”

 

Castiel’s screams would lull him to sleep that night.

 

\--

 

Twenty-four hours later, Castiel was still on the bed, exhausted, and looking worse for wear. His ankles and wrists were bruised, his skin covered in sweat, and he has pissed the bed sometime in the night. Dean made his way over slowly, a tray in his hands. He had originally planned on starving Castiel, so he could lose some of the weight he had on, which wasn’t much, but it was still too much. He wanted an angel, a _doll_ ; not an overweight boy.

 

“I see you could not get away,” he commented lightly as he sank down on a rickety chair next to the bed, showing Castiel the food he had brought for him. He had made Castiel eggs, bacon, and brought him orange juice. “You’re the first I’ve ever cooked for.”

 

Castiel shifted on the bed, trying to pull away but he couldn’t. “Go away,” he whispered.

 

Dean glowered at him coldly. “Go _away_? I made you breakfast, you ungrateful little- …” he trailed off, collecting himself before he grew too angry, and then he started again, his tone kinder this time. “Do you not like eggs?”

 

“I don’t want anything from you,” came the defiant response.

 

Dean glared, his hands tightening on the tray until his fingers popped. “I was going to starve you but I took the trouble to _make_ you breakfast… and _now_ you don’t want it?!”

 

“Maybe you’ve gotten hard of hearing in your old age,” Castiel whispered, “but I said I don’t want _anything_ from you.”

 

His anger burst. He threw the tray into Castiel’s face, listening to him scream as the hot food hit his skin. The chair ended up on the other side of the room and then he was storming over to the workbench and picking up the knife, clutching its bone handle tightly. The blade shimmered sharply in the light but he paused, feeling his heart pounding heavily against his chest. He wanted Castiel to stay on his own volition, not to run away, or try to kill himself. He had to try new tactics, he couldn’t always use threats, so the blade returned to the table and he went upstairs to calm down.

 

Later, he would return to Castiel and apologize. Maybe he would ask him for his favorite foods, and buy him a warm blanket to cover up in. If Castiel behaved, he would even untie him and allow him upstairs. But first he needed to be disciplined, which was happening tonight. He took a deep breath and then another, before returning to the basement. As he walked over to Castiel, who lay crying, and shaking, Dean had to bite back the urge to tell him to shut up.

 

“I am sorry,” he managed to say slowly, “for frightening you.”

 

“Please, just let me go, Dean… Please? If- if you had just _asked_ me on a date, I would have said yes! I would have!” Castiel sobbed. “I liked you, you were nice… but… I was _wrong_.”

 

Dean shifted slightly, unsure of why he felt ashamed and embarrassed. They had never made him feel conscientious of how he was working before, not before Castiel. “I did not mean to frighten you,” he repeated dully.

 

“Let me go, please.”

 

“I can’t let you go,” he replied quickly. “You have to stay.”

 

“ _Why_?”

 

“You will like it here, I promise.” Dean reached over and stroked Castiel’s hair affectionately, even as Castiel flinched from his hand. “My angel.”

 

“I’m not-.”

 

“Yes,” he snapped. “You are an angel. _My_ angel. Now, I am going to make you something else to eat and you are going to eat it, do you understand me? If I am going to the trouble to make you something, you will appreciate it. Am I making myself clear?”

 

Castiel looked defeated as he nodded, but he had agreed, and for Dean, that was all that mattered.

 

\--

 

The dank air made it hard to breathe heavy, Dean realized. He sighed, his eyes closing at the pleasure. Castiel was tight and warm and wet from the lubrication. He could hear him moaning softly into the mattress. He had flipped him over before fucking him quickly in the bed, his cock needing release. After giving Castiel a hot tea with some roofies inside, it had become much easier to get him ready for sex. His body was listless, but Dean was able to fuck his frustration out. When his release came he saw stars shooting behind his eyelids, and then he eased back, letting Castiel lie on the bed still and silent.

 

Dean rolled him over to lie on his back before walking over to the table and picking up the knife. Castiel was unconscious enough for the next thing, he decided as he began to carve into the boy’s chest. D E A N ‘ S. Now Castiel couldn’t leave him without people knowing. There would always be a reminder. A smile slid across his face when his handiwork was complete. His angel, now marked, would be his forever.

 

\--

 

Two weeks went by without further incident.

 

Castiel was compliant and quiet most of the time, and Dean fed him sparingly, giving him enough water to keep him alive, and enough food to keep him awake. Once he started to lose weight, he fed him again. The scar still stood out on his chest, and Dean smiled every time he saw it. It was a beautiful reminder that Castiel was indeed his now.

 

He was in the process of handing Castiel some breakfast, when Castiel spoke up, his voice hoarse from misuse, “Dean...”

 

“Oh, so you are talking still, that is good.”

 

“Dean, if I behave... may I... be allowed to get up on my own? Untie me... please?” Castiel looked up at him tiredly. “Please?”

 

Dean frowned, poising his hand over the plate that was in his other. “You want to be untied?”

 

“I’ll behave, honest,” Castiel insisted quietly. “I swear I’ll be good. I just wanted to stretch my legs... please.”

 

He had not expected Castiel to ask for freedoms, they never asked for freedoms, but then again, Castiel was very special. If he wanted to start asking for freedoms, then he could ask for them.

 

“I am not sure untying you would be a good idea,” he replied as his eyes moved over to the wall of weapons; if he let Castiel go, then he would have access to those.

 

“Then... then only untie me with you in the room, I can... I can earn it, please?” Castiel stared up at him with pleading eyes. “I would never hurt you Dean, I promise.”

 

Dean slowly set aside the plate and began to untie his wrists. He didn’t believe Castiel would be so stupid as to hurt him either. He wasn’t a genius by any means, but he assuredly wasn’t _that_ stupid. So, Dean released Castiel’s wrists and then his ankles, ready to put him in his place if he made a wrong move. But all Castiel did was stretch his limbs very slowly, even getting up, just as slowly, still stretching upward. Dean took a step back so he could watch and so he could have room to whip out his knife if need be.

 

“Thank you,” Castiel said, looking at him with sincerely grateful eyes. “You are a good man, you _are_.”

 

His eyes wandered over Castiel’s thin frame and he smiled slightly, his fingers reach out to caress his hipbone. The boy’s hipbones were what he thought on at night before he went to sleep. He could feel Castiel’s body tightening but he considered it anticipation as he drew Castiel closer to him. Their lips connected slowly but it wasn’t long before he had his tongue down Castiel’s throat and his hands in his hair.

 

He slid his hands down Castiel’s body to caress him along his spine and hips, their tongues sliding together in harmony. Dean groaned, losing himself in Castiel’s smell. It wasn’t until he felt a sharp, agonizing pain, followed by a rush of blood, that he yanked back, spitting the blood out of his mouth when he realized Castiel had bit his tongue as hard as he could. He screamed at the pain, blood pouring out of his mouth as if a dam had been released.

Castiel was running.

 

Dean watched as Castiel grabbed a knife and then ran up the stairs. He was still stunned and his eyes were seeing stars he realized as the blood just kept coming. Castiel had bit him so badly that he was having trouble feeling his tongue at all. He reached up to feel it and tried to scream. The sound came out broken and wrong; Castiel had bit the organ almost clean off, it was barely hanging on.

 

Dean shuddered as he removed his knife, realizing this was only going to distract him, and he had to cut the remaining bit off as he could hear Castiel clomping above him in the house. The blade cut through his flesh painlessly and then he was spitting out more blood, hoping it would staunch itself on its own as he walked up the stairs slowly, trailing bloody fingers up the railing. The house had suddenly gone quiet but when Dean made his way to the threshold, he could see that the front door was still shut. He couldn’t call for Castiel like he would have wanted to, instead, he walked quietly down the hall, barely making any sound at all.

 

Every now and again he had to spit blood out of his mouth, but he continued through the house quietly, his ears straining to hear where Castiel had gone. If he were to try and go outside, he’d end up lost in the woods, which was probably what he had realized too late. There was no escaping here, Dean had made sure of that a long time ago. With the house so quiet, Dean could practically hear his own heart beating calmly against his chest, but there was another thrum, a panicked and desperate beating; Castiel was still here, somewhere in the house. Fear was like a disease and once it spread, it was impossible to get rid of.

 

Dean gave pause by the stairs that led upstairs, his ears straining, when he heard a creak. A younger version of himself would have rushed up the steps to investigate, but he moved much slower now. He reached and slowly removed his boots before quietly ascending the stairs in silence. The creak happened again and Dean turned his eyes to the linen closet at the end of the hallway. The silence after was deafening. Dean’s legs glided him down the hall, slowly reaching for the handle, allowing the door to open up slowly and easily.

 

It was empty.

 

He seethed, closing the closet door and spitting more blood onto the floor. Now angry, Dean turned and stormed down the hall, throwing open every door in the hallway, wishing he could scream for Castiel to show himself. Every room on the surface looked empty but Dean went into his bedroom first, yanking open the bathroom door, the shower curtain, cabinets, his closet, even the dresser, but Castiel was nowhere to be found. He checked bathrooms, guest rooms, even the attic, before finally returning downstairs.

 

The house returned to silence when he made his way back downstairs. There was still a taste of fear but it was ebbing away slowly. Either Castiel had stopped being afraid of him or he was gone. Angrily, Dean walked down the hall and made his way to the kitchen. The knife block sat pretty and new on his counter and for a moment, nothing seemed amiss. Until he counted the knives. The butcher knife was missing. Dean felt his fingers twitch and he turned on heel, his eyes widening at Castiel standing behind him, knife poised to be brought down.

 

Dean smirked and brought his own blade up faster than Castiel had anticipated, knocking the butcher knife right out of his hand. Without a weapon, Castiel fell back a few steps, looking afraid again. Dean shrugged helplessly at his angel as he approached him slowly, forcing Castiel to back up against a corner. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to tell Castiel he should have grabbed a gun, but he couldn’t. From the look on Castiel’s defeated face, Dean realized quickly his expression was doing all of the talking for him. Another smirk filled his face.

 

\--

 

“No- Dean, _please_ , I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Castiel screamed and struggled in his arms as he carried him back downstairs and up to an old chest freezer. With one arm wrapped tightly around Castiel’s squirming body, Dean lifted the lid and began to stuff the boy inside. “Dean- no, wait! I don’t like small spaces! Please!”

 

He was tempted to hit him over the head but Dean needed Castiel be awake for his punishment. The lid came down with a slam and then Dean slid the padlock into place. Castiel screamed and rattled the unbudging lid and he wiped his hands clean casually before walking over to where he had dropped his tongue. It was sitting on the floor, like a forgotten member of a family. He was just hoping it was still good; he should have put it on ice, he lamented quietly as he picked it up.

 

Now, to go to the ER and have them reattach it, and hope he would be able to talk again. Not having a voice was annoying. He couldn’t warn Castiel to conserve his oxygen, he realized, as Castiel continued to scream and make a ruckus in the freezer. Dean sighed inwardly before walking over and grabbing his gun. When the freezer padlock clicked, Castiel froze and stopped making so much noise. Dean lifted the lid and pointed his gun at it, shooting four holes in the top, much to Castiel’s shock, and then he dropped the lid back down again.

 

 

Now the bastard wouldn’t suffocate while he was gone.

 

The real problem would come down to how he was going to explain to the ER nurses about his missing appendage.

 

\--

 

A seven hour surgery later and he was in recovery from having his tongue severed. It had been easy to fake that he had been in a car accident, disoriented and bloody. Ramming his car into a tree had been the only thing he could think of doing, and then he had walked to the ER. They told him he was going to be in recovery for a few days but the surgery had been a surprising success and once the swelling went down, he would have full function of speaking and moving his tongue again. His sense of taste would possibly be gone, but that didn’t matter. He just wanted his voice back.

 

Castiel would still be waiting for him, hungry, thirsty... he’d be _thankful_. Thankful that Dean had returned to take care of him. Perhaps keeping Castiel would be very much like keeping a dog - positive reinforcement. When he behaved, Dean would reward him, when he misbehaved, he would shove him into the freezer chest. Soon, Castiel would learn to behave and all would be well. He would have a perfect angel as his own, handcrafted.

 

The best toy he could have ever asked for.

 

 

 

 

C A S T I E L

 

Chapter Four

 

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_ ,” Castiel choked out as tears slid down his face, “ _take these broken wings and learn to fly_.”

 

Dean had left him in the freezer for what felt like a week. He was so thirsty his tongue felt like a dead weight in his mouth, and his body felt weak. The only thing he could manage to do was sleep and then startle awake with a tortured scream as the nightmares haunted him each time he shut his eyes. Dean was his nightmare and he wasn’t sure what he had done in his life to deserve this hell. Part of him was hoping Dean would forget about him and he would die of thirst in a freezer chest rather than at Dean’s psychotic hand.

 

“ _All your life you were waiting for this moment to arise_.” The words came out half sobbed and choked, strangling themselves in the air before they could carry and echo back.

 

A noise made him freeze.

 

Someone was walking heavily down the steps. It was probably Dean. Even though he needed it to be the cops, Castiel knew it was Dean. Shutting his eyes, Castiel prayed silently for absolution and rescue. The padlock clicked and the freezer top was slowly opening and Castiel pried his eyes open, ready to scream again, but he couldn’t muster the strength.

 

Dean hummed. “Castiel,” he managed to say, even though the s slurred and his tongue was slightly swollen.

 

He flinched when Dean reached into the freezer and forced him to get up; the sudden vertical change made his head swim. He wanted to spit in Dean’s face but he didn’t have strength for that either. Dean didn’t speak again and he wanted to fight but he was too tired, so instead, he allowed Dean to lift him over his shoulder and carry him up the stairs. The blood rushing to his head made his vision swim and his head spin. He could only groan.

 

Then the floor was coming up too fast and Dean was sitting him up around. He frowned. Dean had sat him at a table. A kitchen table. _The_ kitchen table from the kitchen. Castiel shut his eyes and prayed.

 

“Thanks to you,” Dean began, filling their silence, his voice slightly slurred but he spoke slowly, sounding out each word to perfect it. “I had to have a seven hour surgery.”

 

_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil_

 

Dean turned the stove on and put a pan on top, pouring oil in afer. He then had a knife in hand and Castiel flinched so badly he almost fell out of the chair. Dean looked amused as he began to chop onions. “But I’m back now, able to talk, able to function. And _you_ won’t be attempting any more escapes, now will you?”

 

_for You are with me; Your rod, Your staff, they comfort me._

 

“Now _will_ you?” Dean asked, his voice stressing the ‘will’.

 

“No,” he whispered, his eyes falling to where the knife was cutting through the onions. It was so sharp, it could have cut through his own flesh and bone clean and easy. As each onion piece fell onto the board, Castiel imagined them as specks of blood, oozing out onto the board and flowing down the wall and onto the floor. There was so much blood, it was getting on the floor, on Dean’s hands, on the table, to his feet.

 

Whimpering, Castiel pulled his feet up onto the chair, watching the blood ease closer to his bare toes. It was puddling the entire kitchen floor. How was there so much blood? How did Dean have so much blood? When he rose his eyes up from the floor and to where Dean was cutting away, he finally screamed. He was there. On the countertop. Dead. Being chopped up into pieces. A smile filled Dean’s face and he laughed. The laughter mixed with his screams and Castiel realized quickly that he was insane. He screamed louder-

 

\--

 

His eyes snapped open.

 

He was still in the freezer.

 

It had been a dream. A nightmare. A horrid nightmare and Castiel sobbed when he realized he had no idea how long he had been in the freezer. It stank of his own mess and all he wanted to do was be free. Even simply getting out of the freezer would have been better than nothing. Maybe Dean was never coming back, maybe he was dead. Maybe _he_ was going to die down in a psycho’s basement, locked away in an empty freezer.

 

“I don’t want to die,” he whispered to the nothing.

 

 _No one_ wants _to die_ , his conscious answered.

 

“I don’t want to die _here_.”

 

Dying at his own hand was starting to sound better and better. He could stop breathing but then he would pass out and start breathing on his own. His fingers trailed over what was left of his shirt, debating on stuffing it down his throat. That would be sufficient to suffocate him in this freezer that would probably be his coffin. Maybe once he was dead, Dean would come home, find him, and then dump him and the freezer in a lake or maybe he would leave them in the woods.

 

Then, Dean would find someone new to be his angel.

 

He took a slow, deep breath. He couldn’t let someone else fall prey to this man; he had to be the one to end the madness. Another deep breath and Castiel shut his eyes, now determined to save his strength. He had to kill Dean.

 

When the stairs creaked, he realized that _this_ time was reality. Dean was coming home and he was quietly walking down the stairs. _God, I hope they couldn’t fix his tongue_. The lock clicked and he braced himself as the lid was lifted and he was soon staring into nightmare inducing green eyes. If Dean had asked him on a date, he would have said yes, he realized with a sick twist in his stomach.

 

“Hello Castiel,” Dean said slowly, like in his dream, enunciating carefully. “Are you hungry?”

 

He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “Thirsty.” His voice sounded alien to him, as it cracked.

“I’ll feed you. Can you get up?”

 

“...I think so.”

 

“Good. Meet me upstairs.” Dean turned and walked away, leaving him to watch as he was once again, left alone with weapons.

 

His legs shook as he began to stand himself upright, climbing carefully over the edge of the freezer to touch the cold ground beneath his toes. It was like a shock to his system but he stumbled only once, quickly grasping onto the freezer to keep himself from falling over. He walked with determination from the freezer, his eyes scanning over the weapons, slowly reaching for something small, but he had nowhere to hide a knife. His clothes were mostly shreds and he was naked otherwise.

 

But he had to try.

 

Castiel picked up a small knife, clutching it in his hand firmly as he walked up the stairs. He could smell something cooking and he didn’t want to know what, even as his stomach growled angrily. When was the last time he had eaten? He wasn’t sure. Dean did not even look up at him as he came to stand on the other side of the counters, allowing the blockade to hide the weapon in his hand.

 

“I did miss you,” Dean said as he dumped some meat into a pan. “I hope you missed me.”

 

He did not bother to answer, instead he mapped Dean’s every move, wondering what the likelihood of surviving this was even possible.

 

“No?” Dean asked, turning to face him, “or have you lost the ability to speak?”

 

Castiel clutched the knife as hard as he dared, forcing the words from his throat, “Of course I missed you.” When Dean smiled in relief, Castiel waited for him to turn. When he turned back to the stove, Castiel slid around the counter and lunged. He stabbed the knife into Dean’s back, listening to the man scream in shock. With a yank, he went to do it again, but Dean’s elbow came back and smacked him right in his eye.

 

The knife clattered to the floor.

 

He gasped in pain, backing up until he hit the counter, and then Dean was pressing a blade right against his throat. The temptation to force Dean into cutting his throat open was so strong he had to forcibly stop his body from taking a dramatic step forward. Blood was running in rivulets to the floor and Castiel could only hope the bastard bled to death.

 

“Well,” Dean said, his breathing ragged. “I suppose you aren’t going to behave, are you?”

 

“No,” he growled in defiance.

 

Dean sighed heavily and then Castiel was seeing darkness.

 

 

\--

 

The smell of smoke was what woke him from his unconscious state.

 

Castiel startled awake, jerking himself, realizing in vain that he was once again, locked in the freezer. When he touched the top and sides, he flinched at the heat. Smoke tickled his throat and he coughed and coughed. Orange light was flickering through the holes on the top of the freezer.

 

Something was on fire.

 

The sound of crackling flames made him scream and he rattled the freezer as hard as he could. Trying to rock it to falling onto the side not facing the heat. Dean had either lit his own house on fire or he had dumped him in the woods and lit _those_ on fire. He screamed and screamed as loud as he could, rattling and rocking the freezer as best as he could, but his body was weak, and he was so tired. Not to mention the smoke was making him cough and sputter dangerously. He was going to suffocate in this freezer, which, would be better than burning to death.

 

“Dean!” he screamed. “I’m sorry! Let me go! Let me go! Let me out!! Let me out!!” His voice rose to a feverish pitch, hoping Dean could hear him wherever he was. If Dean let him go, he would behave, he would become Dean’s pet, but Dean had to let him go first.

 

He screamed until his throat was hoarse and all he could do was sob, the heat growing hotter, the smoke thicker. Tears streamed down his face and then he heard the lock click. The lid opened and Castiel stared up into the face of his savior. He croaked out an apology and then quietly asked for death.

 

\--

 

“You said you found him like this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Castiel slowly pried his eyes open, turning them onto the scene around him; he was in the hospital, in a hospital bed, there was a doctor, a police officer, and _Dean_ in the room with him. _No_ , he wanted to cry. _He did this to me_.

 

He went to speak but no sound came out.

 

“It was awful,” Dean was saying. “Finding him like this in the woods... Burnt, no tongue, mouth sewn shut... a psycho must have found him.”

 

Castiel tried to scream but he couldn’t and he realized it was because there were bandages wrapped around his face. The pain made his vision swim as he became self aware. Dean had cut out his tongue and sewn his mouth shut. _Dean was the psycho. Dean is the psycho!!_

 

“It’s all right, Sir, we thank you for your good deed,” the officer said, patting Dean on the shoulder.

 

He rattled on the bed angrily, which made the doctor turn to face him in surprise. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said with a smile. “Good. The officer would like to ask you some questions.”

 

 _Good_ he thought. Dean would finally get what was coming to him. The officer approached him and he was handed a pad of paper and a pen. He looked at the officer expectantly. He was ready.

 

“Son, who did this to you?” the officer asked slowly.

 

Castiel wrote eagerly, probably too eagerly, D E A N  W I N C H E S T E R

 

He then pointed to Dean who was still standing off to the side.

 

“This man?” the officer asked, sounding as if he didn’t believe him at all. “This is the man who found you. I need to know who _did_ this to you.”

 

He pointed at Dean more insistently. _Him. Him. Him. Him. Him. Him._

 

“I’m sorry Mr. Winchester, I’m sure he’s just confusing you with his attacker,” the doctor said, sounding sad _._

 

 _What was wrong with these people?!_ Dean had done this to him. Once again, Castiel pointed to Dean, who looked bemused. As if he knew something that Castiel did not.

 

“It’s all right, Doc,” Dean replied coolly. “He’s probably just disoriented, like you said earlier.”

 

He attempted to scream against the bandages, the sound coming out like a wounded animal’s.

 

“Calm down,” the doctor said. “It’s alright. He’s not here, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

 

Castiel circled Dean’s name over and over and pointed to the psycho in the room. Why wouldn’t they believe him? What had Dean told them? Why hadn’t his family been called? Why wasn’t Dean in handcuffs?

 

“Perhaps you should question him when he’s less upset,” the doctor suggested to the officer, who nodded, and then they were leaving... leaving him alone in the same room as Dean.

 

He screamed.

 

Dean smiled.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Dean had somehow convinced everyone around him that Castiel was to go home with him because they were related and since he was new in town and no one knew him, they believed him. He was returned to his jail cell weeks later, and by then, Castiel had lost all fight and desire in his body. Dean locked him in a closet as soon as they came home, since the freezer was ruined - _thanks to him_ , Dean was kind to remind him.

 

The closet was dark.

 

It also had a coat inside.

 

Castiel trailed his fingers along the fabric of the sleeve and began to stuff the fabric in his mouth. He forced it down his throat, tears streaming into his eyes as breathing became harder and harder. His drool soaked the fabric and eventually, he laid down and waited. Death would come and this hell would end. What would Dean do with his body? What would Dean do with him once he was dead?

 

Probably fuck him.

 

Then he’d probably dismember him and put him in a tree or burn his remains.

 

He didn’t care. He didn’t care as long as it ended.

 

 _Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I fear no evil_.

  


E P I L O G U E

 

Finding Castiel’s lifeless body in the closet had not been the way he had wanted it to end but Dean dragged him out back all the same. Castiel’s thin body came apart easily beneath the new meat cleaver he had purchased. Normally, he dumped the bodies in rivers or off bridges or in the woods, but dismembering Castiel’s seemed easier. He could then simply put him in a bag and dump him in the garbage. Which was what the bastard deserved.

 

Castiel had been ungrateful.

 

He had been _awful_.

 

He had not been his perfect angel and Dean hated him. He was angry that Castiel had not suffered _more_ before his untimely death. He was angry that he was going to have to clean up his mess after. Dean sighed, stuffing Castiel’s dead body into a thick garbage bag and then stuffing that bag into another bag to be dumped with the rest of his garbage. No one would be the wiser. Not until he was but a sack of bones and covered in a landfill.

 

Dean smirked, eagerly taking the trash out to the curb.

 

\--

 

There was a beautiful boy at the town’s annual fall festival. He was selling bags of mixed, honey roasted nuts. He had eyes the color of chocolate chips, and hair as fair and soft as a doll’s. Dean made his way over to the young man slowly, picking through the crowd, studying his movements, his friendly and trusting smile. He was so beautiful.

 

 _This_ time he was right. This boy was the one.

 

His perfect doll.

 

His beautiful angel.

 

Dean came to stand in line, patiently waiting for it to move up. He would smile at the boy. He would make this the right one. As the line moved up, he focused in on the boy’s beautiful voice and he could feel happiness spread around him. He was perfect all the way down to his lovely voice. It was his turn so he took a step forward.

 

“Hello, I’m Dean Winchester. What’s your name?”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
